I’m Scott, a single father. Six months ago, I buried my 15-year-old son, Ben. His funeral was packed with people who cried, hugged me, and promised to stay close. But as time passed, the calls stopped, the visits faded—everyone vanished except Daniel.
Daniel was Ben’s best friend, just 16, lanky and soft-spoken. During Ben’s three-year battle with a heart condition, Daniel was the one who showed up. “Mr. Scott,” he once said, holding a notebook, “I drew new pages for Ben. Thought he’d like these.” Even when Ben was hooked up to machines, Daniel never missed a day. My family stopped coming, but Daniel stayed.
One night, Ben, weak and pale, whispered, “Dad, if I don’t make it… give Daniel my college fund. He deserves it more than I.” I tried to refuse, but I promised. A few weeks later, Ben passed peacefully.
After the funeral, I thought Daniel would disappear too. But he knocked on my door the Tuesday after. He looked worn, grief weighing on him. He gave me a small wooden box filled with Ben’s hospital bracelet, a photo of them laughing, and a note saying, “Thanks for being the best friend ever.”
Every Tuesday since, Daniel comes over. We share memories, sometimes laugh, sometimes cry. He told me he’s working part-time and might not go to college because his mom’s struggling. When I asked what he’d study, he said engineering or art—Ben believed in him.
So I decided to honor my promise and give Daniel Ben’s college fund. At a family dinner, I told them. They were shocked and angry—“That money should stay in the family,” they said. But I told them, “Blood didn’t show up when I needed it most. Daniel did.”
Three weeks later, I helped Daniel move into his dorm. His desk was lined with textbooks and sketches he drew for Ben. “You already did,” I told him, “You earned it.” For the first time in a long time, my heart felt whole again. Because sometimes, the family that matters is the one you choose.